Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research 99/397

LETTERS FROM INDIA , 16 TH LANCERS , 1840 S

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withal) break the ranks, I slipped my feet out of the stirrups, and endeavoured to throw myself off. In doing this my sword belt caught the cantle of the saddle, and there I hung for some minutes dangling against the horse’s hocks, expecting to be dashed to pieces; but fortunately the belt broke, and I found myself on terra firma . I lay for a few minutes reflecting on what I should do, when a ball came within a few feet of my head, and sent the dust, and blood from my arms, into my face, which at once convinced me that that was no place of safety. On getting up for the purpose of making my way to the rear, I was met by a Sikh – a tall, ugly looking fellow, full six feet in height, and whose every feature is indelibly impressed upon my memory – he came up, and seeing my helpless condition, placed his musket within a yard of my head; just at that moment I lifted my left arm as if to strike him, and his charge burnt a portion of the hair off the back of my head, the ball entering my right shoulder. I lay for some moments, with my heart in my mouth, expecting the cowardly rascal would settle me with his bayonet; but whilst he was in the act of re-loading his piece, one of our Artillerymen rode up and gave him the contents of his pistol, which only wounding him, he dismounted and put his sword through him. After this I got up, and grasping the stump of my right arm, again made for the rear. I had not proceeded many paces before I found myself in front of a troop of our Artillery, who were ready to fire upon the retreating enemy, and only waiting for our squadron to get out of the way. I managed to get between two of the guns, and then trotted as fast as my legs would carry me. They congratulated me on my escape, for had the word been given they must have fired, and in all probability I should then have been swept away from the muzzle of one of our own guns; but ‘my hour was not come,’ and I walked on for about a mile and met with a doctor, who applied a tourniquet to my arm, gave me three parts of a tumbler of brandy and water, and directed me to the field hospital, where, on arriving in a very exhausted state, it was found necessary to amputate my arm just below the elbow. In contrast to the cowardly Sikh who had so nearly silenced me, I must just mention a little incident, which illustrates the devotedness of our lion-hearted antagonists, and that forbearance which ever characterizes the British soldier in the field of battle. An old friend of mine in Her Majesty’s 3 rd Dragoons (from which regiment I was transferred to the 16 th ), at Ferozeshah was charging a battery, and on coming up to one of the guns he observed a venerable old Sikh, with a white flowing beard: his age induced him to spare him; but in riding past the old veteran, who, not being able to reach his flintlock at the moment, took up his sponge-staff and fetched him such a blow in the small of his back as almost to send him over his horse’s head. This was too much for John Bull, who, turning his horse about, was obliged, in self-defence, to